Not Quite a Minivan
by ItsADuckStupid
Summary: Moya isn't quite a minivan, but since when has he followed convention? JA


**Title: Not Quite a Minivan**

**Author: Duck**

**A/N: A little post mini vignette. J/A mushiness**.

He likes to watch her sleep, chest rising and falling, stone silent but for the occasional dream, when he can hear her talking to unseen foes. Snoring was obviously a habit Peacekeepers didn't allow—understandable when numerous soldiers share sleeping quarters. Even her breath makes no noise, not even the occasional whistle, of which she has accused him of more than once.

He doesn't know what she dreams about; the words and guttural noises she makes are incoherently Sebecean, and when he asks, she doesn't understand. She never remembers what fills her head at night-another Peacekeeper habit, no doubt to keep the screams of their victims out of the barracks.

There's a slight swell to her waistband tonight, and it will be considerably larger tomorrow, he knows and in several days a new addition will be made to Moya's crew. Another hybrid. Another little Sun-Crichton in the universe. The anticipation is nearly killing him.

The only worry lies within their first child—will he welcome the newest addition or harbor jealousy? His comfort is knowing that his son will not remember how he felt in a few years. He hopes his children will get along well, but he cannot help but think of the invisible barrier between him and his oldest sister that neither could ever overcome.

He rises from the bed and steals silently across the golden hall to his son's room. The little boy sleeps contentedly in his converted cell—it was made for him as soon as he started to speak. She knows that this is in fact John Crichton's son; he talks all the time, even in his sleep. The boy murmurs now, but from his distance, he can't understand the words.

As he watches the boy sleep, he thinks about the new child. Will they have his eyes and her nose? Raven black or brown like his and D'Argo's? Will they be book smart or have her warrior spirit? Even these things he's not sure about with D'Argo yet, and he wonders at the possibilities.

Assured that his son is sleeping comfortably, he returns to his own room. Resuming vigilance, he notices how the muted gold light catches her hair and the ethereal glow that seems the surround her. She is, he thinks, one of the most beautiful people he's ever met, especially when she carries his child. His hands brush a stray hair from her face and she nuzzles into his hand, smiling softly in her sleep.

It's strange to him that the sharp ache in his gut is out of happiness instead of misery. Startling how fast things change. In one blink of a wormhole your whole world can be flipped, deep fried, and generally mashed to a pulp. Seconds become microts, hours become arns, years now cycles. Vocabulary he's used his entire life suddenly has no meaning, his entire life, his entire civilization, nonexistent and not important. Day is night, night is always constant, and he can stargaze whenever he feels like it.

He looks at her, and wonders if she could adjust to a planet's cycle. Rise with the sun, sleep in its absence. Possibly, but he would never ask. So much she's sacrificed for him already.

So much he's given up for her too.

He wonders when they stopped keeping track. Maybe when the near death experiences started totaling in the teens, or maybe when they started to fall in love. He owes so much to her, the very fact that he's breathing for one; but she's given him something he would never ask of anyone else—children. Their DNA, combined into innocent wide eyed babies. For that, he owes her everything.

Her breath catches as her eyes flutter open. Usually her sleep is undisturbed, so there is an instant of panic that is quickly subsided by the look in her eyes. Lips quirking into a smile, she places her hand on the protruding bump. Jealous, he reaches for her and feels the tiny movements beneath her skin. Early, this one is, but normal is no longer in his vocabulary. The boy is their only measurement of 'normal' and his birth was hardly conventional.

Their hands interlace, fingers squeezing gently over the pulse of new life.

Moya isn't quite a minivan, and 2.5 just doesn't seem like a high enough number-it's not like he ever followed conventional anyway. Now that he's here, in his home, he can't imagine his life any other way.

He kisses her stomach, and smiles.

**El Fin**


End file.
